Sins of the Supernatural - TWOCII
by Erullisse
Summary: Lord Niall found a second great-grandchild only to lose his second son, but tempting fate leads to lies that leave every species fending for themselves, and two girls to choose between the two worlds and two men they love to stay alive.


**Disclaimer**I do not own any part or character from the Southern Vampire Mysteries or any other book or movie referenced here. It was written purely for pixie giggles and to make me smile.

**Notes** = MY SOUL is set approximately 2 years after SVM Book 8 "From Dead to Worse" and includes a little Godric from TrueBlood, the sexy elves from LOTR, & a heaping bonus dose of Nuada, the smoking hot elf from Hellboy II. Elves, Fairies - I'm a fey freak, what can I say? Rated M for profanity, lemons, limes, graphic violence, torture, character death, & forced mental and physical situations. It also contains scenes during which you might very well laugh your ass off and fall out of that comfy computer chair. So strap yourself in, be forewarned, and enjoy.

**BETA** = **Mrstulipmn**, my personal Motivational Speaker and Grammar Queen Extraordinaire and **KASEY1921**, idea trampoline, banana lover, and generalized luvnut who makes me laugh my ass off no matter what's gone wrong! Couldn't do it without you girls! Thank you!

**~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~**

**MY SOUL TO TAKE**

**The TWO WORLDS, ONE CHOICE Final Edition**

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**~ Chapter 1 - The Dead Will Rise ~**

"You pointy-eared piece of possum ass, how dare you tell me what to do!"

Grace threw her legs open and yanked up her shorts, shoving a finger at the bright red fang marks on the inside of her thigh. "You lost that right the second Eric Northman crammed his face in my crotch and drained me dry. Louisiana is NOT my new home! I'm going back to South Carolina, and I don't need a freaking fairy's permission to leave!"

Nuada glared back with venom in his eyes. "I do not recall you complaining when Logan took his turn, so you shut that putrid little mouth of yours to me! _N__in heniach_? Do you understand?"

"Jealous?" Grace smiled back in mock southern sweetness. "Little surprise. You take dick to a new level, and I don't mean in length and girth either, but after you shove that elf dictionary up your ass you keep spitting at me, why don't you break those blocking wards and open that door? I'll forget about this whole thing." She slammed a cabinet hard enough to crack the glass. "That or I'm gonna keep breaking shit till Niall Brigant flits his fairy ass down here and opens it himself!"

Reaching for his ringing phone, Nuada passed her a glance that promised she did not want to do that, but Grace was using her telekinetic abilities to hurl another antique Wedgwood plate with every word. The elaborate penthouse kitchen with its dark granite countertops and coffee colored hardwood floors was already littered with the wreckage of their battle, but she didn't give a flipping damn. She was being held hostage by Niall Brigant. His psycho son tried to kill her. She had yet to see Sookie, and the silver-haired warrior she now shared a blood bond with had left her crying in a rose garden without so much as a backward glance. Her life sucked monkey nuts, and that porcelain skinned picture of masculinity standing across the counter was gonna get what was coming to him one way or another, of that his elven ass could rest assured. Amarande Nuada may have started this fight, but by God, Laurel Grace intended to finish it. Guaran-freaking-teed!

And she made sure that last platter shattered scant inches from his face when Nuada quickly ended his call.

"Do not think I will not throttle you, Erulissë," the guardian warned. "I am not the one responsible for this!"

"Bullshit!" Grace growled – and she was right.

Nuada was entirely responsible for this argument; but after watching her sulk around the apartment for the past two days, he'd had enough. Kicking her bedroom door off the hinges wasn't the preferred way to remedy that in retrospect, but it was too late to take it back now. He couldn't take back anything that had happened over the past three weeks, but he'd not only gotten blamed for it, he'd been saddled with holding the bitchy little human hostage in Niall's penthouse flat. The least she could do was be civil.

Fat chance.

Grace was after him like a swamp dog hunting hogs in that Louisiana bayou she'd been born in, glistening grey eyes shading black as she grabbed the last thing from a giant hutch: a huge and no doubt priceless crystal vase. Her strong southern morals cringed at the thought of destroying such a thing, but the end of the world as one knows it can be a powerful motivating force. So could two weeks trapped in the fey realm taking a crash course on how to be an elemental from an elf. And she did not mean the Santa Claus kind. No sir, this one was done. Even if she had to squeeze her Cadillac keys out of Nuada's nose holes, she would be back on the Isle of Palms by the end of the week.

Or not.

Two hundred pounds of immortal muscle was sporting a frown when Nuada offered his final warning. "Throw that, and I will tie you to the bed."

He would, too. She could see it in his eyes. So could the cool blue pair now soaking in the scene. Eric chuckled slightly. The girl was pissed to no end, and not only was she having an absolute fit, she seemed to be winning - which was not entirely a surprise. Any woman related to Sookie Stackhouse was bound to be hell on wheels, and you throw either one of them in a fight and it would always be worth watching. He kinda hoped Grace did smack Nuada with that vase - because he couldn't wait to see how the elf handled her. It never hurt to have some new suggestions!

Right on cue, Grace sent the chunk of crystal singing across the room. Nuada shattered to shadow, caught it in a tendril of fire and sat that thing down soft as a feather floating to the floor. He reappeared not five feet from her, eyes burning with the rings of red that marked the end of his temper. "Witch!" he snarled along with some colorful curses. "I should've left you for that damn marchwarden to suffer with."

Any creature with normal intelligence would've run. The little human half-breed didn't back down one inch. Grace just grabbed a bottle of Dom Pérignon from the wine rack. "Go for it, Goldilocks!"

Wondering if Grace was actually desperate enough to break it and try to stab Nuada with the shards, Eric put his six-and-a-half foot frame in the arched opening that spanned to the den in a silent offer of help.

"Thank the gods," Nuada snarled, hands fisted so he wouldn't be tempted to start strangling her. "Either help me calm Erulissë down, or I swear to the Valar, she shall be shackled in irons!" "

Eric was sure he had a pair to spare, but there was no time to get them from the trunk. Too intent on escape to realize they had been joined by anyone else, Grace was about to sacrifice that champagne for the cause by cracking it over Nuada's head so she could commence with the Need-The-Key strip search. The elf's expression dared her to do it, but the next second, the stubborn little southerner was locked in a pair of cold muscular male arms - and Nuada had not shifted.

Positive it was Kalen come to help, Grace wiggled round with every intention of putting a knee in his nuts - then she caught a glimpse of her captor and screamed like she'd seen a six-foot spider. It was the very same vampire who drained her dry. Eric Northman had hold of her again!

**~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~**

**Fangtasia Parking Lot – Three Weeks Earlier**

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Red lips opened and closed, sharp white canines flashing in neon before they demurely slid away. A glowing blood droplet hung precariously from one corner, bragging of what went on inside. Grace eased the Escalade under the neon Fangtasia sign and cussed. Months of plans, eighteen hours driving, three days digging through courthouse archives and no less than seventy-five miles of rutted red clay roads and swamps – only to end up with squat. She'd found the old homestead, knew that's where she was born. And for what? Twenty-two years of wondering just to be taunted by a faded "No Trespassing" sign dangling off a half-dead oak? To know some California corporation owned the sacred ground where her family had died?

_Stupid shit!_ Grace sucked the last puff from her cigarette, fighting the urge to throw up as she continued to hunt for a parking spot. No doubt some self-important jerk invited friends down to hunt deer in the fall and probably didn't even know - or maybe he knew and just didn't care; didn't give a damn what she'd been through. Her black-tipped fingers clutched the wheel as she turned the truck again, throat tightening as the runestone hanging from her rearview mirror swayed back and forth; mind regurgitating memories as the sign threw its taunting red and white lights over the wild roses on her dash. She bit her lip . . . remembering how the blood had tasted.

_The lights flickered and dimmed, the house trembling as something hit the floor with a loud thud. The smell of pine needles and sulfur choked her –yet her grandmother's chant continued – a rune pressed to her forehead as an invisible fist tightened around her, crushing the pony decal on the front of her favorite pink shirt. She had tried to back away, could not leave the circle, could not escape the bad man's voice. "Our child is dead and you cannot save that little abomination you are hiding, so come out to me. Come, let me show you how well I have mastered your lessons of black magic." She had known her mother was dead even as her grandmother pried the secret trapdoor open. "Is the perfect night for killing, the perfect night for betrayers and mixed blood mongrels to die. I intend to make you eat every one of those blasphemous silver runes when I burn you out of that hole. Or would you prefer I fuck you one last time then drown you like Fintan's spawn?" Soft green tendrils of protective light had turned to a boiling river of hellfire as paint streamed off the walls, fiery strands throwing themselves on her like a net of writhing serpents, threads of fire biting her flesh as her grandmother threw her to the ground. "Live for us all," Mikita sobbed - then the trapdoor slammed shut._

A blaring horn jerked Grace from her revelry, ending the nightmare that repeated ad nauseam every night. She called the driver a few flowery things under her breath, lighting another cigarette as she jerked the obnoxious black truck onto the gravel path leading to the back lot of Fangtasia. _Live for who? I don't even know my own birthday. _ If not for the tangle of scars covering her back, the whole thing could've been just a nightmare. Even now, back on Louisiana soil with the cinders of the house that burned down around her stuck to the soles of her shoes, she couldn't prove it had ever happened . . . so maybe it was time to simply forget. Maybe she did remember it all wrong. "Just scars from the house fire" – that's what her adopted parents always said. Her eyes narrowed. Yeah, and "Southern Comfort" was what the giant decal across her windshield said, so that's exactly what she was going to get. Even if it didn't last, for tonight she was going to forget her fears - the stain on her shirt, the Cheetos crushed on the floor, and the fact that the truck was on fumes. She was gonna pull her panties out of her ass and march right through the front door of a vampire bar for the very first time, see if Fangtasia lived up to all the fuss. She'd drink till she was numb, laugh at the tourists the same way she did in the beach bars back home, and come morning Grace would be gone. Forgotten – nothing but a black rumble leaving Louisiana in the dust.

Or that was the plan. Too bad the creature hiding in the bushes hadn't forgotten a thing.

Raven hair hung to his waist, braids decorated with bone beads shifting on the air, raking over the rune scars burned across his chest. He stood tall and proud, reeking the arrogance of royalty even amidst the humid weight of swamp air and underbrush as he adjusted the dagger at his waist. He scanned the parking lot again, every sense on high alert as he pressed a worn boot against the lifeless face of the fairy crumpled at his feet. A frog croaked as it sank in thick, black mud.

"Bastard!" Dermot hissed, knowing in some strange way, he had missed this place.

Bone crunched as he stomped the murdered guard again. Did Niall Brigant really believe by exiling him and guarding this human mongrel that he would simply give up? That because he was a mixed blood too, that Sookie Stackhouse would not die? The idea was insulting. He would never give up! Additional obstacles only made this cat-and-mouse killing game more entertaining – and made him want to kill her that much more. No. Never again would he hide in the Nether Realm shadow swamps. Tonight, he would send his father the distinct message that he had returned and intended to stay . . . and he would write it right across this parking lot in Sookie Stackhouse's blood.

Sparkling dust that once was a fairy wafted around his feet when a creature finally caught his eye. The grungy vampire was alone and Dermot tracked him through the parking lot, immediately suspecting this was one he could use. He called to the breeze and the wind complied, speaking volumes as it wafted against his nose and confessed the vampire's secrets: young, arrogant, hungry - and perfect. Sliding from the shadows, Dermot fell into step beside him. "Nice work. Have it done around here?"

The vampire cocked a tattooed brow bearing three silver rings in his direction, but did not stop walking. "Don't matter. Once you're dead, you're done." He gave a sickly satisfied smile. "Can't nobody never change nothing 'bout me again."

"Let me be the judge of that."

One blink and Dermot had transported the unsuspecting vampire into the trees, the ancient runes branded on his skin burning with sapphire flames as he crushed him onto the unforgiving bark of a stump. The full moon flickered then dimmed as elemental magic forced leaves and withered limbs to dance on a vile wind, hate spilling from his lips to drown the vampire's mind. "Qualmë nottelmannar. You will make her suffer."

The vampire watched in horror, his body limp, fangs useless as he struggled against the fey spell binding his mind. "What . . . are . . . you?"

Dermot lifted the much larger creature and slammed him against a tree. "I am your new master."

Thick tendrils of fey fire twined around the vampire's body as Dermot returned to his malevolent chant, unbreakable vines of death magic singeing pallid flesh as they slithered up his nose and into his eyes, stiffening his body like a puppet whose strings were being drawn. An unholy shriek tore from his lungs as Dermot seized the creature's very soul, forcing primal instincts to unfurl and succumb to the burning hunger now blossoming in his gut. "Haryal hórë," Dermot whispered. "I command you now."

Caleb sat like a well-trained dog as Dermot leapt into the low-hanging branches of a sprawling oak. The fey channeled a rage so potent, sap boiled beneath his feet, salivating at the mere thought of wetting his blade with Eric's blood as his enchanted pet tore Sookie to shreds – but there was something else. Something eerily familiar that grabbed hold of him and shook like a chum line promising sinful treats. His gaze scanned, stopped and locked. The human vehicle with its blaring music meant nothing, the single female occupant even less, yet there was something wildly riveting about it. Fey could sense one another for miles – who could she be? He hooked a finger, commanding the wind yet again. "Tell me."

Air sweet as molasses draped across Dermot's tongue when the scented tendril returned, rolling tangerines, sunshine and salt through his senses as the girl climbed from the truck; yet the moment his eyes made contact, smell no longer mattered. Nothing mattered save bronze flesh and raven hair that mirrored his own, mocking him with memories of an execrable bargain struck years ago until his head buzzed with memories of the one lover he would have given his very life for. Mikita. The beautiful, omnipotent mage who branded runes in his flesh as she fucked him. The powerful creature who had gifted him the dark magic that now ruled his life in exchange for the gift of his seed—and cost him everything.

"Impossible!"

He spat the denial, a flick of his wrist sending a shadow of hate to prove him wrong even as a jolt of long forgotten need tore through his gut. He remembered his grandchild's screams as he burned her alive. The way his daughter Sybele's eyes slid shut when he snapped her neck; how Mikita's blood had stained his hands for days. He killed his own brother that night – killed Fintan's son, too – had never stopped killing to that very moment and did not intend to stop now. So would Sookie and Eric be the only ones to die this night? Or had fate decided to play . . .

Cold sweat beaded his forehead as the flicker of mist slipped under the back tire of her truck. The girl had stopped to study herself in the side mirror, and just as she straightened the specter smoothed itself across her skin – skin that responded with a soft blue shimmer. Fairy fire. Blue fairy fire inherited from him. Dermot's sight bled black then red as a bone deep rage boiled and memories of the murdered lover he had denied for two decades broke free, ripping open the fabric of his universe as the world spiraled down around him. Now he knew why he had been able to defeat Mikita. He had not bested the bitch. The powerful mage had sacrificed herself. His grandchild was not dead. Mikita transferred her magic to the child to hide her, and little Laurel Grace was very much alive . . . and she was standing less than fifty paces away.

"You shall not survive the second time," Dermot hissed as he ordered Caleb to rise. "Black truck - kill the girl!"

Caleb's hands curled into claws as he sprang to his feet, obedient steps quickly working through tangles of dead vines as he headed for the parking lot. Dermot slipped higher up the tree, seeking a better vantage point. His frozen heart registered nothing but burning revulsion for the grandchild he had helped to create, but oft-savored memories of a murdered lover offered a toxic mixture of pleasure and pain that filled his cock until it threatened to burst.

Seemingly of their own accord, his thighs sprawled. He groaned, unable to stop his trembling fingers as they made their way to the lacings of his pants. His consciousness narrowed, Mikita's long forgotten groans circling his mind with every sick slide of palm against the heat of his flesh. Bark raked his back. His hips rocked, even as a thick revulsion threatened to make him retch – yet, he felt no sympathy as he tracked the vampire's course. It was Mikita's own darkness that owned him now, leaving him hungry for the taste of death . . . and he truly could not wait to taste it again.

Neither could Eric Northman.

Reaching a cool hand to the newly installed dimmer switch, he reduced the office light to a bare glow, knowing that Sookie would never imagine him doing such a thing – and she didn't. Twirling round to face him, Sookie worried that there was a problem with the power, but the instant she caught sight of that predatory glint in his eyes, she knew this was anything but. Her face eased into a gentle smile as the cool blue eyes of the powerful vampire she called her boyfriend intentionally caressed every inch of her body. That simple gaze was enough to make her breath catch, and Sookie trembled as he crossed the room. He pushed her against the desk and shoved Sookie's dress to her waist, but she grabbed the hemline, wrestling him for it. "Eric, my head's about to explode and you can't really think we're gonna do this! Not in your office - and we had reservations."

"No one is stupid enough to open that door," he rumbled, jerking it back up. "And sex is the best thing for a headache, so lay back and let me make you forget the one you've been complaining about the past few days."

The enticing hollow of her navel beckoned as he fitted his hands to her thighs and slid his tongue inside. Sookie smelled like camellias after a spring rain, so deliciously and irresistibly alive as he canted her back and nipped a devilish path lower. Her protests became helpless whimpers, her legs willingly wrapped around his head by the time he hooked a fang in the thin elastic strap at her hip and prepared to chew her underwear off: a rather teensy purple, lace pair. Mmmm, it was time to eat – soft serve with a side of thighs.

Eric licked his lips and growled, but Sookie stopped him, grabbing a handful of hair right at the nape of his neck and giving it a wicked yank.

"Do it again, and I'll fuck you right here on this desk," he warned.

The second yank was hard enough to make him admire the seamstresses at Levi Strauss; because it was a miracle he didn't bust the crotch of his jeans right there. He was on his feet working the zipper before he realized his favorite fantasy of sprawling Sookie's naked body over his business papers and pounding into her while standing up would not come true. Sookie was green, and he had a pronounced aversion to being vomited on during copulation – or any other time, for that matter.

Sookie trembled as he gathered her in his arms, tenderly rearranging the short, gingham dress as he split his wrist and pressed it to her lips. "Drink. It must be a migraine, but this will make it pass." She readily took what he offered; but while the erotic pressure of her lips on his skin typically set him afire, a prickle of apprehension scattered his thoughts. Tightening his grip, he turned toward the door, listening intently. Eric detected nothing amiss: no sounds of a fight or smell of spilling blood. Yet, his very bones told him something was terribly wrong; something that extended far beyond the reaches of a headache, and something Sookie's missing mouth quickly confirmed.

His blood should have cured her aching head in an instant, yet she sat hunched over the edge of his desk with one hand clamped around her middle and the other over her mouth. "Tell me," he demanded.

"I—I don't know. I've felt funny for three days, like something was sneaking up on me. Then tonight, it's like somebody's watching me. Something dark, evil." Sookie scrambled upright, blue eyes swimming with alarm as her voice dropped to a nervous whisper. "I feel—I feel like I'm being hunted."

"Hunted?" Eric spat. "Not unless they intend to die. Where have you felt this - Merlotte's? Home? Here?"

Sookie paled to white and clutched her head as the projector in her mind began to flip at blinding speed. She tried not to scream, tried not to choke on the terror bubbling in her throat. Here. Right here. Out back by what looked like Logan's truck. There was a girl . . . and when that girl looked up, she was gonna find hell in her face.

And hell was exactly what Grace found when her purse hit the ground; a mountainous man with stringy dark hair and under-eye circles to match who threw himself against her faster than any eye could follow. It all happened so fast after that, there was no time to react. No time to be sorry she disobeyed one of her grandmother's golden rules and dared tempt fate by going to a vampire bar. It was just unthinkable to die because of a beer. Because in some perfect world she thought an ice-cold Corona could erase the taint of this place and set her soul free. Instead, a clap of thunder shook her to the bone and she knew it was too late. Knew it when the voice came. That hauntingly foreign, familiar voice that hunted her in the dark and proved every nightmare was real.

_Qualmë nottelmanna. Death has come for you, little Laurel Grace._

Oh, holy . . . living . . . hell. Even before blue lightning lit the sky, Grace knew the man who murdered her family had finally found her. Dermot was going to kill her, too, and there was no doubt what would be doing his dirty work when the man in her face curled his lips back to bare fangs. "Goddamn, you smell good enough to eat," he groaned, nostrils flaring wider as he sucked in great, ragged drags of air.

Heart twisting, Grace made a solemn promise that if she survived, she'd hunt down and strangle the saleswoman who sprayed her with that damn perfume at the mall, though deep down she knew she was nowhere near strong enough to fight off a crazed vamp. Her keys and all hope of setting off the truck alarm were buried in gravel under a thick black boot; the truck door as cold as those big brown eyes bright with madness when he corralled her back. The predatory gaze peeling off her clothes was ominous, the crude bulge in his jeans even worse; and all it took was one glance from her toward the employee entrance for the vamp to slam her back like a gnat. "Scream," he growled. "He wants to hear."

Grace would've cut her own throat before giving Dermot the satisfaction, but she screeched, clawed, and kicked; finger making a sick squish when she rammed it in the vamp's eye - but Caleb didn't care. He ate at her like he was starved for her taste, nose up and down the curve of her neck like he was drunk on the very scent of her skin, but she'd suffered too much shit in her lifetime for it to end like this.

With a crack that echoed off Fangtasia's back wall, Grace planted a fist in his face; over twenty years of hate and fear feeding a balls-to-the-wall berserker rage as she took him up on the eating idea, and sank her teeth in his chin. Caleb slapped her so hard her neck should've snapped, but his own vampire blood now streaked her face, pure supernatural strength sliding down her throat like hot sweet syrup as she shoved a hand in his crotch. Shriveled or standing, a dead man's dick was as vulnerable as any other man's, so she used that unexpected blood boost and did her level best to tear it off, following a sadistic yank with a well-placed knee to the nuts.

She was holding a handful of pubes when Caleb staggered backwards with his eyes crossed. "Run if you want, bitch," he gasped, "but something much worse is waiting. He'll tear you apart and laugh while he's doing it."

No shit. She'd been through that hell before, but he had to catch her first, so Grace added a now shoeless foot to the groin to slow the vamp down, then tore for the door like the hounds of hell were on her heels. She yelled for help with every step, but it seemed as if the earth itself was determined to make her stay. Shadows sucked the breath from her lungs. Clouds threw drizzle in her face. Gravel tore her toes with every step. _Holy shit, this can't be happening . . . not again. _ But the blackness did have her again when Caleb caught up, cold hands clamped on her shoulders warning what would follow when he jerked her around.

"_Please," _Grace begged for the first time in her life. _"You never came back for me, but I believe you're real. Please . . . don't let him take me, too."_

Memories of butterflies and the sweet, sweet smell of wisteria carried the prayer away, even as her scarred palm hit the dirt; cruel fingers closing her throat as the vamp ripped her shirt in half and drove her to the ground. Caleb's fangs felt like heated spikes when they tore into her neck, stretching seconds to minutes then hours and days as her own blood painted a sacred circle in the dirt and the crazed creature ripped into her skin again and again - but Grace flatly refused to die. Every ounce of strength in her soul swore someone could hear her, so she spat out rune after rune, determined to hang on as she ripped out hunks of his hair. She kneed. She spat and bit and cussed; silver-grey eyes locked on the moon in almost worshipful intensity as she sent her silent prayers up again. Still, the nightmare only deepened when Caleb gave up and began dragging her toward the woods.

High in the trees, Dermot threw his head back and roared. Hot streams of seed spewed from his flesh as he opened his soul, greedily waiting to harvest the twisted pain of his grandchild's death. It did not come. Trickles of moonlight crept together until a shaft of pure light shown down around them, searing the scars on Grace's back down deeper into her skin. She fought to scream, but had no voice - tried to cry, but had no strength. She could feel the phantom fingers ghosting over her, peeling away the warm blanket of her grandmother's protection; soul stripped bare as once again mage magic waged war, a grandmother's determination to protect the child she died for pitted against the insane creature she had helped to create . . . but as a hot, powerful wind began to build on the horizon, there was a blinding explosion of light and the protective spells that had hidden the great-grandchild of Niall Brigant for over twenty years gave way.

A shockwave of awareness blew through the very fabric of the fey. In the fairy realm of Nárthea, Niall was knocked to his knees. Inside Fangtasia, the connection to her cousin slammed through Sookie like a runaway train. And high in an ancient oak, Dermot was ripped from his sadistic perch. He howled as he slammed to the ground, blinded by the determination to see Grace dead, but he would not win this war. A brilliant flash of silver sliced the night as an elven blade sank to the hilt in Caleb's skull. Fey warriors streamed from the shadows - then metal shuddered and Eric Northman exploded from the back door of Fangtasia, fists clenched and fangs bared. Cursing violently, Dermot faded away, determined this was only the beginning. Not the end.

But it would've been if Eric could've caught him.

After laying Sookie on his office couch in Pam's care, he now stood on the other side of the parking lot itching to kill. Instead, he had entered a whole new world. A smothering blanket of darkness hugged the ground, flashes of brilliant blue lightning burning his eyes as he scented the breeze and listened. As Sookie said, there was indeed a black Escalade parked behind the bar, but the unique decals showed it did not belong to Logan. A freezing wind bit his skin as he honed his senses. There was no girl in sight but the musky aroma of fey teased his nose, though it seemed tainted and less desirable somehow—then his ears picked up the sound of muffled voices nearby.

Swift and silent, Eric crossed the parking lot. When he snapped to a halt even his ancient soul could hardly accept what he saw. He cautiously eased closer, soaking in the sight of a crumpled human female with blood spread beneath her in a grim shadow; yet that was the most plausible part of the picture. A man in opulent silken garments hovered over the damaged girl. Another step, and Eric glimpsed a crown nestled atop his head; the waist-length raven hair woven into braids like none he had ever seen. He strained to hear the words of two heavily accented masculine voices.

"_This simply cannot be possible! One of us would have sensed her. I would have known Grace was alive!" _

"_Is no doubt she carried fey blood, but there may be others. Are you certain it is the child?"_

"_It is Grace, I feel it in my soul."_

Having confirmation that fey were involved, Eric wagered a guess the man was one of Lord Niall's relatives. He worked toward the left, trying to get a better look at the second form partially hidden behind him. As his line of sight cleared the tree between them, he discovered a more pressing problem.

"Don't!" Eric cried out, but even as he raced to intervene, the fey ripped a thick serrated blade from a vampire's skull and skewered him in the throat, severing his head with one stroke. Eric skidded to a halt just in time for blood to spray across his chest, yet the executioner paid him no mind as he cast the body aside then inspected the dripping head. Eric recognized the victim: Caleb, a young male vampire turned only some six weeks earlier. _And just what had that ignorant fledgling done? _One look down told the sad story, yet nothing granted permission for fey to enter his territory and kill one under his command.

The Vampire Sheriff of Area 5 bristled with indignation and planted himself in the creature's face. "Who the hell are you and why are you here?"

The executioner's striking silver hair shimmered like newly minted coins as he tilted his head, looking for all the world as if Eric had asked him nothing more interesting than the weather as he hurled the head away, spiking it on a nearby branch without ever breaking eye contact. Eric knew from the way he clutched the hilt of his bloody knife, the man was ready to kill again as each made a quick assessment of the other.

Obviously pointed ears verified fey ancestry, while unrelieved black leather stretched over a lean, honed body boasting the scarred muscles of a warrior, and a wild and earthy scent that might well be found in the depths of a dense, dark jungle. A wide weapons belt filled with an array of artfully crafted blades lay low on his hips; the center a heavy silver medallion engraved with an unusual and ornate tree Eric estimated to be a royal crest of some type, and the fey's burning stare left no doubt he would die to defend it.

"Who are you?" Eric repeated.

The executioner declined to answer yet again, and Eric prepared for battle as a second fey warrior materialized, though this one was nothing like the other. Piercing sulfur eyes peered from a hard face of bleached skin beneath tightly braided hair, yet he carried himself on a wave of euphoria that was as if he had walked right out of a rainbow. Still, Eric felt as if he was trapped between two wild animals, the scent of impending disaster so thick he could feel it on his skin.

An authoritative voice rang out. "Hold!"

The warriors remained in place as Eric turned to the man who had spoken. It was the creature in the robes, and there was no doubt he was fey royalty. From the precious jewels glittering against the molten silver and slate hues of his clothes, right up to the platinum colored circlet atop his head, the creature exuded nobility and power. He met Eric's inquisitive look with a dismissive glance, then turned his attentions back to the blood-stained human on the ground. Eric's gaze followed. The damage Caleb had inflicted was impressive – and confusing. The girl did not smell fairy, and he worried what could have driven the new vampire to such a rage of bloodlust – and why the fey were involved. Worries that increased exponentially when the man cradling the girl's head in his gently wrinkled hands raised his golden head and confronted him with a sea green glare colder than the ocean depths themselves.

Eric felt the hair on the back of his neck stiffen. "Niall?"

The king did not answer, just returned his focus to the girl and the man crouched at his side. The two appeared to be working together; reading her, very much the way Sookie did when she placed her hands on someone and touched their thoughts. "Elrond, please," Niall pleaded, "you are a healer. Tell me she will not die."

The other did not break to answer, murmuring healing incantations in a hurried tone as Niall sprang to his feet. His ashen pallor did him no favors, but even climbing from the ground with gravel dust all over the pants of his suit, the fairy looked dignified and imposing; his naturally expressive face taut with outrage as he turned on Eric with a glare. "You dare stand and watch as if this is amusement, when my brother is kneeling in filth trying to save my great-grandchild because your subordinate attacked her?"

Eric's gut twisted. Until that moment, he was unaware Niall possessed either a brother or a second great-grandchild and his attention flew back to the injured girl. Elrond was steadily running his hands over her blood soaked skin, and Eric knew immediately if she'd lost that much, her condition was dire. He hesitated to think what repercussions her death might bring. "If you don't want that girl to die, you need my help."

His tone was conciliatory and his intentions admirable, but the moment Eric's knees hit gravel, a primal thirst maddened him. Dermot's planted fey essence was specifically designed to send a vampire into bloodlust, and Eric was ready to finish the girl off in seconds. A fierce grip in his hair and the chill of a war blade already damp with vampire blood stopped him, but while being grabbed in such a manner would have typically resulted in the offender's certain death, Eric's body refused to respond. He felt as if he had been encased in concrete.

"The girl has been scented," came the low, lilted explanation. "The lust is taking this one, too."

Four supernatural stares converged on Eric's swollen pupils, but he was too mesmerized by the blood steadily seeping from Grace's torn neck to care. His mind hummed to a silent melody, begging for instructions. His fangs ached to tear flesh, his stomach empty as a scorched desert.

"Valar be merciful, he is gone," Elrond snapped when he finally raised his head up, "but if the creature can offer assistance, you must free him. Now, Niall! This mixed blood resists my healing. The child fades."

"Fades?" Niall gasped. He struggled to keep his voice calm. "Kalen, summon so many guards as you need. There is but one who would do this. Find him and bring him alive!"

The fairy quickly strode away as Niall tilted his head back to study the sky. He abruptly shuddered, shifting from his earthly guise to his true fey appearance; dark, tailored pinstripes swirling into sprays of opalescent dewdrops floating on gossamer robes as every inch of his flesh lit with a heavenly luminescence and he lifted outstretched arms to the sky. Dark clouds began to whirl, hunting one another as they tried to flee the swarm of shimmering fireflies now dancing through the sky, filling it with light with every dip and spin as Niall commanded Dermot's evil spells to subside. Chaotic wisps of lightning sparkled and pranced. The shadows lifted, freeing a blanket of stars to share their light as a beautiful full moon beamed brightly again; the happy summer breeze singing in relief as Niall returned himself to his earthly appearance, knowing Grace was scented no more.

The instant it ended, Eric's sanity returned and the grip on his body was removed. He wanted nothing more than to tear the throat out of that silver-haired warrior behind him, but the fey's intervention had been warranted and in no small way Eric was thankful that his head was still attached. Forcing himself to remain steady and ignore the overwhelming scent of blood, he made a quick, calculated assessment of the injured girl. Her breathing was shallow, and the grey pallor of her skin told him she had passed beyond mortal medical assistance. Baring fangs, he tore open his wrist, holding his arm to her neck so his healing blood would drip into the mangled wounds. "This will stop some of the bleeding," he said, "but if this girl doesn't take in some fresh blood fast, she's dead."

Niall watched with unveiled disgust. "It most certainly will not come from you. Sookie being bound to you is revolting enough, but you will never possess both of my great-grandchildren!"

"My blood can save her life," Eric snapped.

"Your blood does nothing," Elrond quietly observed, leaned over close to study wounds that had closed only a fraction. The bitter threat of failure tinted the air, then understanding broke over his winsome face. "Dermot is elemental, so his grandchild must be as well. Only the blood of another fey will heal her, yet either of ours is too powerful." His gaze flicked to the only available donor. "Haldir, come."

Still scrambling to place the name "Dermot", Eric watched the executioner's reaction with curiosity. Haldir's body had stiffened, his jaw clenched until it visibly twitched, yet he readily sank his knees in the blood.

"You know how to do this, vampire?" he asked.

Eric studied the delicate maze of scars decorating the fey's temples as he took Grace's limp face into his hands. "Yes, _fairy. _Blood is everything to a vampire, so don't doubt I'll get it in her. Cut your hand. I'll do the rest."

The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were hiding a smile as Haldir reached to the pocket of his thick leather pants and slipped out a small blade. "I am not a fairy," he offered as he sliced open the palm of his hand with no thought or hesitation. "I am an elf."

Stunned to silence, Eric could only stare as Haldir pressed his dripping palm between Grace's pallid lips, then he forced himself to focus on manipulating the limp muscles of her jaw as Elrond placed firm hands on her chest, healing touch transformed from gentle traces to roaring flames as Niall plunged into her mind and the blood filled her mouth. "Come on, Grace, show me some of that southern fight you women are so famous for," Eric encouraged, trying to keep her awake. "Open your eyes - look. Your family is here."

The seconds ticked by, heavy and slow; her heartbeat faint as the flutter of the butterflies she watched as a child, then a pair of luminescent grey eyes identical to Elrond's opened, straining to stay open and see, though they fell closed again almost instantly. Eric knew Grace was about to die, so he got right down in her face. "Goddamn you girl, live!" he growled just before Haldir shoved him aside with a gritty curse.

"Her essence fades. We must go faster." Heaving her into a sitting position, he caught her body in the crook of his arm. Her mouth was closed, so sucking blood from his palm, he closed his mouth over her own, forcing it open with his tongue as he spit the blood inside.

Eric had to admit, he was damn impressed. And thrilled when Grace coughed then greedily swallowed. "Bring her inside," he offered. "We can lay her on my desk." So he could watch. And figure out what the fuck was happening here!

"No," Elrond said with a shake of his head, gesturing to Haldir as he did. "Such injuries cannot possibly be tended under such terrible conditions. The child goes to Imladris." He offered his brother a quick nod. "Join us in the guest wing when you settle things here - and brother, do not worry. She will be safe there."

With a soft shift of air, the trio was gone and Eric could do little more than stare. Few things surprised the thousand-year-old vampire, but those two elves and that injured human were simply not there anymore. He took a step back. Sookie had described such actions by Niall, but he'd never seen them firsthand and it was both astonishing and disturbing. His unease only increased when he turned to discover that Niall had somehow cloaked their position. Only swirls of strange purplish fog surrounded the expanse of shadowy gravel. Fangtasia was no longer visible.

Expecting Niall to seek revenge for the night's events, Eric prepared to defend himself; but the fairy had stepped away to consult with the braid-haired warrior he addressed earlier as Kalen. Similar ashen-faced creatures now milled about, and Eric watched them as he eavesdropped. Two emerged from the woods carrying what appeared to be bags of glittering sand, while another pair silently collected a spilled purse from the ground, then swiftly climbed into the black Escalade and drove into the night.

Eric noted the tag number as he listened to Niall end his conversation with Kalen. "He is not answering my summons, so something more is amiss. Find him and make him aware at once!" The fairy lord turned on his heel and stalked back to Eric, gesturing toward the now ashy puddle of vampire remains in the gravel. "And you—you will locate the putrid excuse for a being responsible for creating that rogue monster and you will secure him for my punishment. Are we clear?"

Eric did not hesitate to meet his fierce scowl. "You may be lord in your world, but not mine," he gave back with forced civility. "So the better thing is to tell me what really happened here, because I already know Caleb was not in control of himself during that attack."

"Then you may also know that if my great-grandchild dies, I will fill Fangtasia with so many fey you will swear Armageddon has arrived before I am finished here," Niall seethed. "So while you pray to your Pagan Gods for her safe recovery, not one word will cross your lips about this loathsome occurrence or I will personally cut your tongue out before I seal you in a silver coffin and throw you in the ocean off Tír na nÓg for all eternity. The news of my second great-grandchild will be delivered to Sookie by me, and me alone!"

Eric remained carefully stone-faced as he stared back at Niall, silently cursing him with every irreverent malediction he could recollect while relishing the fact that the fairy could not read his dead mind. He and Niall typically got along, but Eric knew dating Sookie was not enough to expunge his accountability so far as tonight was concerned. Niall Brigant was extremely dangerous, particularly when in such a state of anger—and now there were this brother and these elves to consider, not to mention the spell that had taken hold of him a few minutes ago. Careful diplomacy would be required, so Eric reined in his temper – a little. "Of course, I want the girl to recover, and I'll respect your request not to mention this to Sookie - for now - but you will give me a damn explanation so I can protect her from this threat."

Niall looked nauseous. "The fey need no help from you, Northman, so do not try to involve yourself where you are not welcome. You have but one task, and it would behoove you to do it quickly less you face his fate yourself."

The fairy was gone before his voice had faded into the trees, and Eric took a few minutes to be sure the fog dissipated while he brushed the dirt from his jeans, and rearranged the gravel with his feet so the bloodstain was not visible - though the ones on his shirt certainly would be. Heading toward his Corvette, Eric cursed again, only this time it was out loud and in a language that hadn't been heard in centuries. He jerked open the door and popped the trunk, knowing Bobby better have his dry cleaning inside if he wanted to live. Thankfully, his day man had done well, and Eric cleaned his wrist with his ruined shirt then replaced it with an identical one. He hid the soiled garment in the tire well, while plotting the lie he would sell Sookie when he returned. The woman he loved might not be able to hear his thoughts, but so much blood had been shared between them, she had become excellent at reading him all the same. Sookie always knew when he was lying or upset. This would not be an easy task.

Steeling himself, Eric slipped through the front entrance in lieu of the back, fending off advances from admiring Fangbangers as he collected a much-needed bottle of TrueBlood from the bar, before ducking the crush of the crowd for the bathroom. After quickly drinking the synthetic blood to restore what he had donated, Eric went to work removing all traces of the last fifteen minutes. He washed his hands, combed his hair, then wiped the stray drops of blood from his face. Beckoning one of his closest underlings to join him as he exited, Eric quickly relayed information under his breath as they threaded the throngs of tourists gyrating on the dance floor. Logan could charm the knickers off a nun if needed, and he was the creature Eric needed to validate this lie.

"A girl was attacked out back, and the fey are involved. One is dead, and I just watched an elf cut that new vamp Caleb's head off like he enjoyed it—and he seemed like the friendly one—so I need Sookie out of here quick. She sensed what was happening and said it involved your truck. Don't worry. It didn't, but so far as she's concerned some ignorant drunks were outside hanging around it. You're with me for the rest of the night. We're going to take her home then figure out what the hell is going on. Got it?"

"Got it," the tall blond answered, following Eric down the hall toward his office.

"South Carolina tag BLUFIRE," Eric said. "Pass a note to Pam and tell her to start tracing it as soon as we leave."

Logan nodded as Eric opened the office door. Sookie's face was red from crying, and Pam's irritated glance told him she'd had her hands full keeping the girl inside. "False alarm," he announced. "There was a girl out back, but she was just talking with a few of the local drunks rubbing themselves all over Logan's precious Escalade."

Sookie rubbed her arms as if chilled and stared at him suspiciously. "You sure? 'Cause my head started feeling better after you went outside, but what I saw felt real."

"Positive," Eric smiled. "Logan came out and we ran them off. Only damage is some fingerprints and lipstick."

Perched on the opposite corner of Eric's desk pretending to be interested in the latest newspaper crossword puzzle, Logan nodded in agreement and passed Sookie a smoldering look. Eric should've been pissed, but he just sat back in his chair to watch. Few things were more entertaining than Logan playing a female, because they fell for it every single time.

This time was no different.

As expected, Logan folded the paper to focus on Sookie as if she were the most important creature in the universe, flouncing a carpet of honey lashes as he settled his squared jaw into his hand; forearm intentionally turned to reveal the sacred mark of a paladin noble branded there. "Scout's honor," he offered with a sultry smile.

Sookie stared at the sexy vampire. Logan had been a European knight before being turned in the early 1500's, and a knight would never lie - would he? Sookie's frown eased, and Eric had to lean over and pretend to pick something off the floor to keep from smiling when Pam rolled her eyes in disgust. "Lipstick or not, you're not stealing one of my waitresses to wash that precious truck of yours," she snapped, adjusting her immaculate pink tweed blazer as she came to her feet. "They drool over you enough, and I'm sick of you forging their damn timecards."

Logan clutched his heart. "Oh, Pam, you wound me. And to think, I was going to invite you and Eric to come to the car wash so we could spray each other, and run naked through the woods to dry off."

Sookie snickered softly, knowing the trio had done that more times than she cared to recall. Eric joined in with a smug smile, but for a very different reason. Logan had just saved his ass by playing his girlfriend to perfection. He owed the man. Pam did not, and cut Logan a dark look as she headed for the door. Logan popped her on the butt with his newspaper as she walked by, and Pam's fangs were in his face instantly. "One of these days, you Austrian ass," she warned.

Logan gave her a smile that could warm a room. "Oh, I do hope so," he taunted, handing her the newspaper. "But until then, if I promise not to bother the waitresses tonight, will you find the missing words for me? You're better at crosswords than I am."

"I hope you get briars in your dick," Pam hissed.

She snatched the paper from his hand and stalked from the room as Sookie turned her attentions back on Eric. "Are ya'll really gonna go for a run tonight? I would feel better if you stayed with me, at least for a while."

"If I stay till sunup, you won't get any rest. And you look like you need some," Eric answered gently. He stood up and came around the desk. "Come. Let's get you home."

"Don't worry, Sook. I'll keep him out of trouble," Logan chimed in. "It's just that the moon is full and the woods will be crawling tonight."

_Yeah - with what?_ Eric wondered, as he pulled Sookie to her feet.

Sookie sighed and shook her head, experiencing a moment's regret that she wasn't capable of enjoying such supernatural pleasures along with her friends – but her head still pounded and she really did want to go to bed. "Alright, ya'll win, but just tonight – not tomorrow."

"I'll be sure he's at your beck and call come sundown, My Lady," Logan teased, passing Eric a pointed glance. "And to show my sincerity, I'll even drive you home. It'll give you two lovebirds a chance to smooch on the way." Logan stood up. "Take your time," he whispered to Eric.

Eric sprang to his feet, catching Sookie in a lingering kiss before she could follow. Logan's time comment was a hint, reminding Eric he needed time to get around front and move his truck to bolster their lies—because it had never been parked in the back lot as Sookie envisioned. Thankfully, she seemed worry-free when Eric's lips lifted, and he guided her toward the exit. Eric would coddle her as much as needed to make this lie stick, because he wanted Sookie home and tucked in bed so he could take a long look around that white farmhouse—because Eric was afraid he would not be the only creature looking.

He was right.

**~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~**

_Thanks to IGNOBLEBARD for offering a hand up on this chapter when much needed. _


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